LUNCHTIME at the Stokehouse. It's one of those blindingly bright
but not particularly warm Melbourne afternoons and I can't get Jack
Nicholson out of my mind. Not because the actor is in the house
with his Cheshire cat grin - you would have heard about that one
far earlier - but because the glare beating off the foreshore dares
you to put on sunglasses indoors in defiance of etiquette. To save
any members of generations X through Z scurrying for Debrett's
Guide to Modern Manners, it's a definite no-no: unless, of course,
you happen to be Jack Nicholson, and then you can wear your sunnies
indoors, at night, and in the front row at the Oscars.

Ah yes, the Oscars. The silly season of film industry
self-congratulation is upon us and it offers a nice segue to
Melbourne's restaurants. Among our fairly boast-worthy and eclectic
shortlist, which would win the gong for best restaurant? Or, to put
it another way, where do you take out-of-towners, the ones you
really want to impress once you've driven them down the Great Ocean
Road and shown them Fed Square? Where, indeed, would you take
Jack?

First, let's tick some boxes. The Stokehouse is undoubtedly one
of our "destination" restaurants. It's an institution - no mean
feat in a fickle industry. It also has a level of proficiency in
the supporting cast, including unobtrusive wait staff who seem to
pop up just when you need them, and a wine list that is deeper,
wider and certainly more expensive than the waters of Port Phillip
Bay.

The restaurant is on the upper floor, with a grand veranda
overlooking the beach and the not-so-lumpenproletariat jogging
below. It looks like a great place to be on the handful of
Melbourne days and nights that aren't too cold, too gusty, and
otherwise too busy breaking meteorological records. Most of the
time, I'd rather be behind glass.

Stokehouse certainly has its charms, but the beach-shack
interior is not what you'd expect if you were only aware of it by
reputation. Such as the couple of modern chandeliers made from what
could have been plastic flotsam on the beach, or some bare-breasted
Gauginesque lovelies painted on the pillars. The room has been
painted a slightly greenish hue that brings to mind an
aquarium.

I really don't mind if the floorboards are scuffed, or if a
group of prominent AFL footballers and their model girlfriends are
being way too noisy on their mobile phones, but the specials board
is a different matter. It's a whiteboard, the kind office workers
scrawl on in black felt pen, and it's carted by the wait staff
between tables. There's another one stuck up on the wall. With
entrees hovering around the $27 mark and mains averaging $40, is it
too much to expect the specials to be printed out individually, or
at least written on a blackboard by someone with semi-decent
handwriting?

The substance of the menu is, however, crowd-pleasing stuff:
happily blockbuster rather than arthouse. Chef Anthony Musarra,
since taking the helm in mid-2006 after starring at the Park Hyatt
radii, has been stamping it with his signature big Mediterranean
flavours: expansive without being too specifically regional. A
typically raucous rendition of beef carpaccio ($27.50) has shredded
beetroot "jam", some horseradish mayonnaise, shavings of reggiano,
a jumble of rocket and capers over the top and a few sticks of
grissini. It's bold and satisfying.

The leitmotif of the meal emerges, however, with an entree of
garfish that's been butterflied, pan-fried and topped by a jumbled
mountain of chickpeas, peppers and salt cod, a dollop of good
saffron aioli on the side providing a nice acid hit ($25.50). It's
the chickpeas - the most quotidian of legumes - that end up
becoming the de facto star of the show. They end up being shifted
to the side to give the sweet-fleshed garfish a chance to introduce
itself.

A similar scenario with a dominant ingredient occurs with a
tartare of kingfish and Atlantic salmon ($27.50). The perfect
little two-tone mound of fish comes surrounded by a milk-coloured
moat of white gazpacho; the albino version of the cold Spanish soup
is made with almonds and day-old bread. There's also a hint of
coriander and garlic, and the richness is amped up to 11 by the
addition of chive creme fraiche, but the crasher at what would
otherwise be a very civilised party is a heavy-handed chardonnay
vinegar that overwhelms the delicate flavours.

As for the milk-fed veal tenderloin ($43.50); now, I confess I
have a problem with veal. Not enough of a problem to stop eating
it, mind you, but a pricked conscience. The calf in question stuck
to its diet needlessly, for its meat might as well have been tofu
after being mugged by a sticky brown sauce of reduced veal stock,
cabernet vinegar and red wine. It's a real shame because it is
otherwise perfectly cooked and has the great accompaniment of a
single fat, foie gras-stuffed agnolotto (not plural, as the menu
indicated).

A side salad is clumsy - a conjoined clump of slightly yellowed
baby cos has somehow bluffed its way through quality control, and
wedges of so-so tomato sunbathing across the top are reminiscent of
the 1970s - in a bad way - while the liberally applied basil
vinaigrette is tart and overpowering. I'd really like to see
evidence that someone in the kitchen gave it more than a passing
thought.

Desserts finish on a strong note. The Bombe ($19.50) - a
cross-section of frozen white chocolate parfait, strawberry sorbet
and a sponge base encircled by a blowtorched pillow of dense
meringue - has been a fixture on the menu for some years now, and
rightfully so.

There's also a raspberry vacherin ($19.50) with the
palate-cleansing flavours of red berries, rhubarb, raspberry sorbet
and yoghurt ice-cream. It's a refreshing finish.

I don't have a history with the Stokehouse, having visited only
once before, a decade ago. It is impossible for me to say,
therefore, whether these recent visits - please pause and consider
the plural, readers about to pen an angry note to the editor -
indicate either a sliding-off or business as usual.

I can say that while it's certainly not going to walk away with
the best restaurant gong this time, with Musarra at the helm this
is clearly a kitchen capable of great things. Even institutions can
have the occasional wobble, and the Stokehouse on these recent
visits might have been having an off-moment. I hope so. Time will
tell.